


Five times the Turners didn't get enough sleep and one time they got all the rest they needed

by yukiawison



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, Turner fam cuteness, five times fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:36:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukiawison/pseuds/yukiawison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Turners were never all that well rested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times the Turners didn't get enough sleep and one time they got all the rest they needed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [All the Turnadette fans](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=All+the+Turnadette+fans).



1.  
It didn't happen often, though Shelagh wished it didn't happen at all, but when it did she was there to help.

She knew he was home when she heard the door click. He always tried to be quiet when he knew she was sleeping. But she had keen ears, and it was hard to sleep without him beside her.

When he wasn't close to her, kissing her hair and slipping his arms around her soon after she heard the tell tale click, she knew it was one of those nights. She clicked on the bedside lamp, reached for her glasses, and pulled on her robe--well, his robe but he never minded.

She tread lightly, and sure enough there he was: shoes still on, jacket half off, face in the couch. He had thrown his bag down in the careless manner of someone exhausted (as if the fact that he hadn't made it as far as the bed didn't indicate that already.)

She knelt down beside him, smoothing the hair from his eyes and scanning the lines on his face to see if she could discern what it was that had kept him so long, and what he might be dreaming of.

"Patrick," she said softly. "Come to bed."

He opened his eyes, and she could see how tired he looked, blinking and foggy eyed in front of her.

"Shelagh," he answered, face brightening the way it always seemed to do for her.

"Mrs. Walker? I know she was due soon."

He bobbed his head limply. "A beautiful baby boy. Healthy, safe, perfect..." His eyes fluttered closed again.

He worked too hard. He pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion and just powered through long enough to get the job done.

"Patrick if you needed a break you'd tell me," more of a statement than a question. She worried, after all they'd been through together, and had made him promise that he'd slow down if he needed to.

He nodded, eyes still closed. "It has just been a long day my love." Shelagh didn't mention that it had be the third long day this week, and that she missed him slipping in beside her at a reasonable hour. Instead she kissed him and helped him up, and pulled him close when they had made it back to bed.

"I love you," he whispered, because he always knew what she needed to hear.

"I love you too."

2.  
It was the stomach flu, they had determined. Shelagh took the day off and called the school so they knew not to expect him. Patrick had to be off at the clinic. So it was her, and Timothy who alternated between throwing up in the hall bathroom and nodding off, pale and feverish in his bed.

She smoothed his hair from his face and rubbed his back as he vomited, pushed him to keep drinking his liquids, and read to him so things didn't seem quite so boring.

"I'm going to go make you some soup Timothy, call me if you need anything alright?" He looked so small in the bed, and her heart rate picked up thinking about him in that machine, thinking she might lose him just when everything was falling into place, just when he was starting to become hers.

He nodded, eyes tired. "Thanks Mum."

And she froze, and so did he, eyes widening and mouth agape like he was going to correct himself. He'd never called her mum before. It was always Auntie Shelagh and before then Sister Bernadette. Never mum, mum was off limits. She'd made it clear that she wasn't replacing his mother. They'd discussed it when putting together their new family. And because it was so new she never imagined he'd call her his mum. It was something she respected, and understood.

Maybe it was an accident. He was certainly looking at her like it was. She didn't want to make him feel awkward if it was. He was already sick, he didn't need to be worried or embarrassed too. "You're quite welcome," she replied, trying to keep her voice from breaking.

He looked at her, stunned, as she turned and went into the kitchen.

If it wasn't an accident though. If it was real and on purpose and scared him as much as it scared her what then? She'd cry, and she'd feel even more like his mother, or his new protector. She'd really be part of the family.

Though Patrick reassured her she wondered sometimes, if she was really one of them, if Tim enjoyed her company as much as his father claimed. She hoped so much that he did.

"Auntie Shelagh, could you come here a moment?" The tension in her shoulders released, and she set down her spoon.

"Yes Timothy?"

"I meant to say it," his eyes were trained on the bed sheet, hands grasping at it nervously. "I...I just realized I'd never asked you or anything and I wanted to make sure...I mean if you don't like it I'll...I know I'm not really your kid so..."

"Timothy Turner you are as much mine as any child bound by blood," she said sternly. "You are most certainly my son."

He smiled, a bright beaming smile that made her forget he was ill. "So I can call you my mum? It's okay? You looked so surprised. And I was meaning to ask you before hand it just slipped out. Because my mum used to take care of me the way you do."

"Of course it's okay with me. I just didn't know it was okay with you. I know I can never replace your mum. I'd never want to. I just love you like you're my own and..."

"You're my new mum Shelagh," he thought for a moment. "Not a replacement for my other mum but just as kind," he flushed, that shy little lad way that pinned embarrassment on any show of affection.

She felt her vision going blurry, with tears for once and not exhaustion.

"Thank you," she sniffed.

"I didn't mean to make you cry Mum. Don't cry," he murmured, starting to sit up so he could comfort her.

"No, no, no you lay back down and get some more rest," she said, pushing his shoulders back onto the pillow. "These are happy tears. I'll go finish your soup." She backed out of the room before she could cry any more.

It was late, and she had soup to make.

Patrick came home a few hours later as she was ironing some clothes. "How is he?" He asked, setting his bag down on the table and pulling off his jacket.

"His fever's gone down and he's staying plenty hydrated."

"More like you've been keeping him hydrated, and well rested I'm sure. It's you who needs rest now." He kissed her.

"He called me his mum. He's never called me that."

"He did?" His breath caught, and he put his hands on her waist "That's wonderful Shelagh. I..." He stopped, thought suspended.

"What is it?"

"I love you," he said. "So much. And I'm so glad you agreed to be part of my family, our family. You are his mum."

She frowned. "Oh no now you're crying," She buried her face in his chest. "We can't have that."

"Mum? Can I have some more water?" Timothy called weakly.

"Duty calls," she smiled.

"No, you must be exhausted. Let me..."

"No," she smiled. "He wants his mum."

3.  
Angela wailed again, and Shelagh moved in his arms. "No, no let me," Patrick muttered, kissing her hair and motioning for her to stay where she was. He had had plenty of these nights as of late. It reminded him of when Timothy was young and nights were long and laughter was in plentiful supply. It was nice to have a house like that again, after so long.

He picked Angela up and rocked her back and forth. He hummed and his daughter, their beautiful daughter, fell back asleep. He was thankful every day for Shelagh, a woman who took two children who didn't share her blood and loved them like her own. He wasn't wrong that day on the road, when his heart felt full enough to burst and Shelagh seemed to fill up all the spaces where things were missing.

There, holding his daughter, eyelids drooping and limbs functioning on a meager 3 hours of sleep, he felt the happiest he had in a long while.

"Patrick, are you coming back to bed?" She padded into the kitchen in her white floral nightgown and glasses crooked over her tired eyes. Her hair was mussed and her face was flushed and she was beautiful. She was always beautiful, even in the habit and her round little glasses. When she was delivering babies with such confidence and grace, bravery in the face of the most nerve-wracking cases he knew he was falling in love. He wished he could stop himself when her hand met his to borrow his cigarette, and when she was hurt, a simple cut or tuberculosis dotting the lungs that breathed in and out so much good.

He knew he was in trouble when he wrote her, love letters to a nun who could never be his, a magnificent woman who belonged to God.

And yet here she was, standing in the doorway of his kitchen, giving a lopsided smile to him and their daughter, hand on her hip.

"Patrick," she repeated. He loved the way she said his name. Her voice made everything warm and light. His name on her lips felt like coming home after a difficult day. It felt like Timothy's first steps and Angela in his arms. She was everything that felt like home.

He set Angela back down in her bed and crossed the room to meet her. He kissed her, long and slow and she leaned in to his touch. "Come back to bed," she said, slightly flustered despite her smile. "You need your rest."

When she looked at him like that, he'd do anything she asked.

4.  
Once the measles epidemic had come and passed Shelagh started the children's choir back up, she had the time, and she couldn't bare to see them poorly managed and out of tune.

Rehearsal ended an hour ago but she was still at the church, putting sheet music into folders and writing out notes for the next rehearsal.

It was getting late though, and Patrick would be worrying.

"Mrs. Turner? Are you alright?" Shelagh looked up to see Nurse Franklin standing hesitantly in the aisle.

"I'm quite alright. What are you doing here at this hour?"

She looked nervous, and drained, and Shelagh was reminded of her nights in the sanatorium, restless and confused.

"I um...I never really thought about God. But now," she stopped looking down. Shelagh could tell she was fighting back tears.

"And now Trixie?" She asked gently.

"And now I feel as if I need him. Now things are very difficult. How did you...?"

"How did I what Trixie?" She wanted her to feel free to ask her anything. She wanted her to see that they were friends.

"How did you have the strength to leave the order? I know it must've been hard."

"Well," she thought a moment and Trixie sat down beside her. "I thought about how my life was and how I wanted it to be. And I thought about the way Dr. Turner made me feel and about my devotion to God. I just felt like I was living the wrong life and that God wanted something else for me."

"But how did you leave everything you knew. How could you change yourself so completely?"

Shelagh looked at Trixie who looked lost and scared. She remembered that, and it stung.

"I just had to believe in myself. I just had to believe I was doing the right thing."

"And you did," Trixie said, through tears that had begun slipping down her cheeks.

"Well I'm glad to hear you say that," she slung an arm over Trixie's shoulder and handed her her handkerchief. "It's nice to have someone else remind me. And I don't know what you're going through, but I know I believe in you and that you'll get through it."

"Thank you Mrs. Turner," she mumbled.

"And if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here."

"Thank you," she stood up, and smiled. "Now you should get home, you must be exhausted."

"And you. Good luck Trixie."

She prayed for Trixie that night, and curled up next to Patrick because she had found her place, no matter how difficult it was to get there.

5.  
She fell asleep on his shoulder. They were on the couch, she knitting a hat for Angela, he trying to finish a crossword. She'd been working all day, and he was glad she was resting now. It reminded him, however, of when she fell asleep on his shoulder before. When she wasn't his wife and he couldn't hold her close.

It had been a particularly difficult delivery. She had been the true heroine of the night, coaching the mother through everything and maintaining her cheerful composure through the worst of it. They had delivered a beautiful baby boy.

"You were amazing back there Sister Bernadette," he had said, loading her bicycle into the trunk of his car. She had agreed to let him take her home because she had been up all night.

"Thank you Doctor." She had said, eyes trained on the floor. "Though I couldn't have done it without your help, and the courageous mother of course."

"Of course," he replied, opening the passenger side door for her. She got in, and nodded in appreciation.

It was a short drive to Nonnatus House, and they soon fell silent. Poplar was quiet in the dead of night. The sounds of children, of life, seemed to still as the stars shown brighter in the vast blackness. They were nearly there when he felt a warmth on his shoulder.

Her head rested gently, habit creased and damp with her sweat. She breathed gently and nuzzled into him. He remembered how tight his chest felt, how right everything felt in that moment, with a woman of God dozing off by his side. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong. He knew he must respect the vow she had taken, but damn if he wished that vow was to him.

She woke up, startled by the stop of the car. She looked embarrassed, and ashamed.

"You were tired. No harm done," he said, hoping to console her.

She nodded. "Until tomorrow then Dr. Turner," she said curtly, and the moonlight caught in her eyes and gave away all that she wished she could say. And oh how it had hurt.

Now though, with his wife pressed to his side. Everything felt right once more. And the words she had longed to say that night, the thought that kept her lingering by the door of Nonnatus, was a morning greeting, the three words that accompanied every goodbye and goodnight. Now there was no shame or embarrassment, only love.

+1  
"Now Angela," Timothy began, speaking to his little sister from the kitchen, where he was mixing pancake batter. "Dad and Mum are still asleep, so you have to be very quiet for them. They don't get a lot of days off," he explained. She looked at him with interest.

"If you grow up to be a nurse like Mum you'll have to be at the clinic a lot, helping people who are sick, or who are going to have babies. And if you sing like Mum you might organize a choir or you might have to cook for your family, or pray with the nuns. So you'll be busy like Mum," he smiled. "But if you're lucky you'll be just as caring and kind as she is."

Angela cocked her head to one side in confusion. Timothy rummaged in the cabinet for a pan and put it on the stove top to heat up. "Don't touch this," he added.

"And if I'm like Dad, or if you're like Dad I suppose, you'll have lots of patients to see and places to go all over Poplar. You'll have to keep people safe, no matter what, and they'll all care about you like you care about them, even if you forget sometimes," he put a dollop of batter in the pan. "But you won't forget about your family. You'll love them very much, and you'll come home to them every night."

He flipped a pancake. "And on your days off you'll sleep in with Mum and your kids will make you breakfast so you'll smile even though you're tired and you have work to do tomorrow."

He slid the first pancake on a plate. "And you'll be happy, because we're happy."

"Happy," she said, smiling one of her huge baby smiles.

"Yes Angela, happy."

**Author's Note:**

> I am sad to see that there aren't more Turnadette fics out there. If you are a Turnadette fan, comment and I will resolve to write more. (Sigh, first the Billy Elliot fandom now this. Why must I choose the most underrated ships?)


End file.
